


Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

by Quinnster



Series: Double Take [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinnster/pseuds/Quinnster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt: While being hit on by another man, Arthur gets him to back off by pointing out/dragging Eames into it and claiming him as his boyfriend. After which awkwardness ensues, on Arthur’s side at least. [Bonus points for poorly-playing-it-cool!Arthur and a slow increase of sexual tension.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dayindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayindisguise/gifts).



> Emphasis on "based on" because I went my own direction with it. Eames attends university in America, Arthur stumbles into his life quite literally and upsets what little quiet Eames has for himself, and awkwardness indeed ensues.
> 
> This is purely for my bae over at dayindisguise, and is a part of a series we're collaborating on called Double Take, in which we take the same prompt and write from opposite perspectives without discussing anything about it, so it is the same story, just told differently.
> 
>  
> 
> Mosey on over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4239615) for Arthur's tale.

* * *

 

There are few things Eames enjoys more than having some time to himself. There are also few luxuries Eames is afforded, and time to himself happens to be the very least of them.

 

It’s not that he enjoys being alone, far from it, it’s just his moments of privacy have always been quite literally far and few between his everyday life of hectic busyness, so he likes to take advantage whenever he can. He’s grown up going in and out of a number of foster homes where it was lucky if you were able to take a bath without the door being opened for someone to take a piss, and that style of life has only followed him everywhere, straight on through to his first year of college.

 

Eames, naturally, had the good fortune of landing a roommate who seemingly never slept, and who was always just...there whenever Eames was, and who had no scruples against barging in at the exact moment Eames was trying to have a different kind of private moment in his room. He should be used to it by now. He should, but he’s not, and it’s frustrating to say the least.

 

He’d found a sanctuary though, a little place he could go for the few hours out of the day when he didn’t have class and he needed a place to be by himself and breathe without someone else being there. The campus library was kept open late into the night for those like him who worked better in the late hours and who liked the hush required in a room full of words. Eames had never been one for books, afflicted with dyslexia oftentimes made him slip up on his information even when he was paying attention, but he was capable of forgiving them as they were currently his only means of escape.

 

Except tonight. It’s just him sitting at one of the tables with his bottle of tea purchased from a vending machine - his favorite mum would of been having a fit if she saw him drinking tea from a bottle, but Eames had been surprised with how much he quite liked the stuff - and his Psychology textbooks open to the current week's lesson. It’s getting late, and he hasn’t gotten a thing done aside from highlighting a few lines of information. He stares at them for a moment until they blur together and he has to rub his eyes and stifle a yawn, then he stands and gathers his things together, calling it a night even though he won’t be able to sleep for hours yet.

 

He gives a quiet goodnight to the librarian before heading out. The campus is nearly empty at this time of night, in contrast to how it is during the day, bustling and loud and vibrant. He’s only been in the States for a few months now, and already he likes it better than he likes the hum drum tick-tock rhythm found in England. There’s a time and a place for everything there, tight knit and meticulous, whereas here everything feels relaxed and easy, and time exists in different degrees of importance.

 

His building isn’t as quiet as it usually is on a Thursday night, he can hear the heavy bass pulses of some party happening on one of the floors. He wonders how long it’ll take before security puts a stop to it. Hopefully soon. The music sounds terrible.

 

His trip in the elevator is halted on the way up by someone wanting on, and as the doors open he finds out exactly which floor the party is on by the muffled throbbing turning to outright blaring. A younger man stumbles in, and Eames goes to make room for him, feeling a pinch form between his brows, but he’s surprised when the man stares at him for a single moment before lunging for him.

 

“There you are!” The man, who’s significantly smaller than him, presses himself against Eames like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Eames tenses at the death grip on his bicep from slender hands. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”

 

“Listen,” Eames starts with a frown, before this can get any more awkward. “I’m not -” but he’s cut off when he notices two other individuals a few feet out into the hallway approaching, seemingly friends with...this one attached to his arm currently nuzzling into his shoulder. He would shake himself loose, but the looks on their faces, aimed directly at the young man’s back, makes him stop, and understanding flashes on what’s going on, along with disgust. The man is young, much younger than even Eames. And though he may not know the particulars, he’s been in this sort of situation before plenty of times, and knows the drill, and doesn’t hesitate when they step inside the elevator with them.

 

He lowers his arm around the man’s pertly shaped waist, drawing him close, and looks down at him. “-going to keep shagging you in an elevator every time you choose to be sweet with me, darling. Last time I dropped you, remember?” It’s horribly cheesy, horribly tacky, but it’s all he can think of, and it’s worth a shot.

 

One of them, a spindly looking man with dark skin and inky hair, leans back against the opposite wall and eyes them dubiously as the doors shut. “Who’s this then? You his fuck buddy?”

 

Eames, who’s been gazing down at the figure in his arms with his best attempt at bedroom eyes - which isn’t hard when said boy is quite attractive, and he hasn’t had a good wank in days - looks up the confrontational tone and narrows his eyes at him. “Obviously I’m more than that, if I just came up here to find him. What business is it of yours? Might I ask, who are you?”

 

It becomes tenser than it should be, especially when the boy in his arms is starting to turn up into his neck with those lips, up to his chin and over his mouth. Eames can taste the beer on his lips, and automatically reciprocates, but it turns out the boy is only whispering his name, “Arthur, I’m Arthur.”

 

Luckily he’s spared from having to be answered by the doors opening again, this time on his own damn floor, and he doesn’t hesitate to pull Arthur out with him, his hand still clasped at his waist, his lips burning where they’d pressed against the younger man’s, leaving the two others to take the ride back down without their company. “Come along Arthur, darling.”

 

They aren’t followed, much to his relief. The looks Arthur was being fixed with were revolting to say the least. He stops when he hears the doors close again and the thrum of the elevator as it descends, and lets his hand slip from his ward at once, though the severance of contact makes him feel more empty handed then it should.

 

It’s just them in the harshly lit hallway, and they’re less than four doors from Eames’ room where no doubt Dom is still up. Now that they’re alone, the thick tension that had been stuffing up the elevator shifts to feel awkward. Eames rubs his neck, and Arthur stares hard at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says finally, and Eames can see his embarrassment written all over his face, in the form of a peach colored blush that looks...a little more adorable than it should.

 

He raises his hand and straightens his bookbag, clears his throat. “Not necessary. I get it, it happens.”

 

Except Arthur is shaking his head, and worrying his lip between his teeth.

 

“What?” Eames asks, puzzled.

 

“I have classes with them.”

 

It takes a moment for this to process with Eames. And when it does, “Ahh…right. Shite.”

 

Arthur gives him a funny look then, the very edge of his lip quirked up in slight amusement as if Eames has said something funny, and then sighs and raises a hand to his brow.

 

Eames thinks for a minute, shifting on his feet and calculating exactly what could be done about this, and then shrugs. So much for peace and quiet and privacy.

 

“Guess I’m your boyfriend now.” He says it without a shred of humour, so matter of factly that Arthur stares blankly at him for a moment, before he laughs and shakes his head.

  
“I don’t even know your name,” Arthur says, to which Eames holds his hand out, a smile now touching his own lips as Arthur’s fingers touch his. “I’m Eames.”


End file.
